Friday, August 31, 2007

First off, let me thank everyone who submitted a work story for the contest. Some of them literally made me laugh out loud. In my office. While I should have been working. Seriously.

Some folks didn't really understand the contest and that's okay. Except for the one charming individual emailed me to say, "Why are you having this contest? It's stupid. It's just a lame attempt to get people to comment on your blog because no one reads your blog anymore."Frankly, I'm so boring and stupid these days I'm totally amazed anyone reads this nonsense, ever.

But anyway, the real reason I decided to have this contest is because I've been very reflective on my work situation lately (and ranty, apparently) and I thought this would be fun. Life hasn't been all that fun lately, really.

Anyway! On with the show.

The following are three stories related to work. They could have been written by anyone. One of them is not true. The other two are. The first person who leaves a comment correctly identifying the two correct stories will win an awesome* prize! After this is announced, I will also announce the winner of the first part of the contest, which was the person who sent me a story that I deemed the most funny. Of course, as a mother I am not funny, so again, this is highly subjective.

Here are the stories:

a)The owner of my company is a 55 year old Asian woman who has severe dementia but still manages to do the payroll every week.

One day, I was on the phone with a co-worker when all of a sudden, my co-worker said "Oh shit. Oh. SHIT. (laughing hysterically) Oh.My.God. I gotta call you back."

55 year old Asian owner woman walked past co-worker's window and to the end of the driveway to get the mail in the following attire:

A shirt with a belt around her waist.

And a hat on.

Carrying an umbrella.

With nothing on the bottom half of her body but pantyhose.

And heels.

Her son was called and she was immediately taken home to retrieve her pants.

b) I was at my desk one day with a customer in my office. He and I were having a completely normal conversation, or so I thought, when suddenly he leaned across my desk and in an exaggerated manner smelled of me. Really exaggerated like someone snorting cocaine in a movie.

I must have looked kind of surprised but this did not phase him at all.

He smiled at me and said, "You smell good. Like my mom."

Then he sat back down and continued on with the conversation, as if this were perfectly normal.

Later I found out he had spent years and years in a mental facility. I was not surprised.

c) In high school I worked for a nationally known pizza chain. I was about 17-18 years old and my boss was about about 21-22 and acted like he was about 14. He thought he was hot shit because he made $17000 the prior year and had moved into an apartment with ten other guys.

Even though I was a female I ended up having to do a lot of the deliveries because all of the guys who worked with me were either drunk or high about eighty percent of the time and spent most of their time talking about video games and malt liquor. When I came back from the deliveries I had to put the money in the cash register and then take my tip out from that.

One day the boss thought it would be funny to say to me when I was putting money in the register, "Where my money bitch?" Like he was a gangsta.

I was young and stupid and ignored him. And then he started saying it all. the. time. In front of the guys I worked with and everything. They all thought it was hilarious.

One day I came in from a bunch of deliveries and noticed my dad was in line waiting on his pizza. He smiled at me and I smiled back and before I could say a word, my manager noticed me coming in and said loudly, "Where my money BITCH!"

My dad didn't think that was funny.

That guy got fired less than a week later!

Okay, that's it! Leave a comment saying which two you think are true (a, b, or c) and the first correct answer wins! Good luck!

Thursday, August 30, 2007

I know that you like to listen to the television while you go to the potty. While I do not understand this necessarily, I do respect this as part of your quirkiness.

However, sweet love? When you are done in the potty, could you please, you know, turn the television DOWN so the next time I turn it on it doesn’t cause the earwax I have in my ears to fly outward and slam into the wall in some sort of desperate act of submission? Last night I turned the bedroom television on at around 10pm and the people two streets over had to hear the vile rantings of the Bill O’Reilly program. And as much as I hate those people? They don’t need to hear that crap.

I would appreciate your cooperation in this matter.

Much love,Me

PS: The way you handled the debt collection of the lady who lives three doors down from us? Excellent. I so appreciate the fact that she will probably not be egging our house and scrawling misspelled curse words on my vehicle because of your professional attitude. So thanks for that.

Dear four hundred girls who signed up to be Girl Scouts,

Please. Please. Show up.

I have all this fun stuff planned and my motivation level is really, really high right now and it would be so cool if you guys would actually come.

It will be fun and interesting and I really want you to come.

So please come, okay?

Thanks!Your leader

Dear Coworkers,

For the last time: honestly, I don’t care if you do your training or not. Really, no. I don’t care. Coming into my office with false bravado telling me you aren’t going to do it? Just makes me laugh.

However, if you don’t do it? You’ll be screwed. Because I have proof, and lots of it, that I told you to do the training. And when you can’t get into the building because you didn’t do the building access training, you will be sad.

So. You might want to consider that.

Thanks!The Training Lady

Dear Sister,

Why haven’t I seen new pictures of your baby lately? What are you trying to do here, torture me?

-Ginger had to be groomed today, so I put her in the car along with the kids this morning. When they got out of the car at the Elementary School, the dog looked at me as though I had taken a huge dump in her favorite spot.

-She was even more irritated when we got to the vet and she, GASP, had to see another dog.

-My dog thinks she's a person.

-A very anal, attention-whorish person, apparently.

-When I went to pick up Ginger, I exclaimed loudly, "Look at you SEXY THANG!"

-I totally forgot that I was using my outside voice.

-And that the receptionist at the vet's office was standing there.

-Now, she thinks I'm a freak.

-I'm not sure I even care.

-I told someone today I didn't really understand redneck words, I was just trying to fit in at work.

-I'm not sure that's true, but I keep telling myself that.

-I've been interrupted eleven times while trying to type this post so Boy Child and Girl Child can show me their TaeKwon Do form.

-When they do the big yell? Boy Child goes, "YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" like Hulk Hogan and Girl Child goes, "Ya". Like she couldn't give a crap.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Yesterday, when I came home from work, there was a package on my porch from my friend Kate.

Kate gives the best, best, best, BEST presents ever. She is an amazing woman and an amazing gift giver and oh my sweet Lord, she makes me laugh SO HARD.

When Kate gives you a gift, she puts her whole heart and soul into it. She's extraordinarily creative and witty and bright and she just GETS me (which is why I have a magnet on my refrigerator that says, "Eat your raisins. They make your ass stink less.") She really, honestly cares about the person who receives the gift and she really, really wants you to like it. Which I always do. And she always sends me presents just for absolutely no reason, just because she loves me.

In short, when there is a package from Kate on my porch (or a postcard from Kate in my mailbox) I know it's going to be a hysterically wonderful evening.

The package is addressed to the children, the dog, and myself. Girl Child is excited that a package is actually for someone other than just me. When she hears it's from Kate she gets even MORE excited. Boy Child is thrilled, recalling, "Miss Kate! She sent me the Pig Catapult! Freaking sweet!"

Inside the package is a postcard. On the back, Kate has written:Dear GirlChildBoyChildThatChickandGinger,

(Yes, all one word)I think you can tell whose is whose.XOKate

Inside are four packages, wrapped in white paper.

The first one, clearly is for the dog. And she LOVED IT.

If you can't see what it is, look closely between her ginormous paws. She devoured it in less than an hour.

The next package was for BoyChild. Something blue on it made us realize it was for him. It was plastic frogs. He was delighted.

The last two packages had ribbons on them. One pink and one purple. I gave one to Girl Child and said, "Here. Just open this one. We'll sort it out if we have the wrong one."

I opened mine. It was a beautiful little coin purse with a pretty print on it. I oohed and aahed.

Girl Child opened hers. Her eyes grew wide. She grinned, that smile with the dimple so large it needed it's own zip code.

Step-parents. And people who co-parent. And don’t, you know, shoot each other in the face.

Because? That’s really hard to do.

Last night I was talking to my sister on the phone and I happened to mention something about my ex-husband (I really can’t remember how that subject even came up…the conversation was so freaking hilarious what with the Wilfred Brimley and diabetes references. Long story) and I felt the anger and bile rise up in me like you would not believe.

I’ve long believed that my ex-husband leaving me alone has been the best thing he could ever do for me, although I also believe that he has no idea how much of a favor that he’s actually doing me and probably still thinks that I sit around crying every night because I miss him so much.

Excuse me. I just had to vomit in my trashcan.

Anyway, I read a few blogs of women who are step-mothers and I have to say, I really admire them. Some of them have better relationships with their egg donors than others. Some of them? I honestly don’t know how they haven’t shot the birth mother in the face. But I admire all of them.

I read blogs of women who are dealing with ex-husbands and ex-boyfriends too, of course. I sometimes feel bad when I do, because clearly I am far too immature to be able to handle that kind of stuff. Because the thought of having to deal with my ex-husband on a regular basis makes me want to stuff my fingers in my ears and scream, “Camille!”

Or, you know, whatever.

I guess these women make me think about past fears. One of my main, main fears was that my ex-husband would marry the woman he cheated with. And I would have to be all like, “This is my kid’s step-mother. I’mawhorewithaninnerthightattoo. She sucks.”

Which would, clearly, be a loss of my testimony.

But to my knowledge, he’s not married anyone else. Not that he has anything to do with the kids anyway, so it’s kind of a moot point. But it used to be this huge, huge fear.

I applaud all of you who do it with grace and class. You are far, far better than I.

Monday, August 27, 2007

If you haven’t, basically what you do is tell three things that are not the most believable and the person which you are telling has to figure out which ones are true and which one is not true.

I love this game and since I’ve pretty much shot my wad with my audience here, I am asking for help.

Therefore, I am having a two-part contest. Oh the joys!

Part 1:

Send me an email to thatchickoverthere@gmail.com with the absolute WORST story you can think of involving work, your boss, or a co-worker. It can be anything; a boss who makes you cut her toenails, a co-worker who farts loudly and then blames…I don’t know, the dog or whatever, a crazy office situation, ANYTHING. The only stipulations are: it has to be about work in some way AND it has to be TRUE.

Please DON’T leave me the story in a blog comment. It’s okay to comment something like, “Hey, I’m going to send you an email!” (Which, actually, do that. Okay? For some reason several people’s emails have been going into my spam folder and if you comment I’ll know to look for your story). But if you leave the story, that will defeat the purpose of Part 2 of the contest.

The person who sends me the craziest/funniest story will win a neato-keeno* prize!

Seriously, make it as funny as possible. My life is so un-funny these days that I need all the help I can get.

Part 2:

I will post two of my favorite crazy work stories and one made up story on my blog. The first person to correctly identify which one is made-up will also win a neato-keeno* prize!

I will accept emails until Thursday at midnight (Eastern Standard Time). I’ll pick the winners on Friday, August 31st.

So, what are you waiting for? Email me already! Even if you don’t normally comment on my blog, please feel free to participate! I can’t wait to see what you all come up with.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

I haven't even been to Disneyworld (ONLY FIFTY-SIX DAYS AWAY!!) yet, and I'm already obsessed with next year. When we'll buy our new house.

I know our budget and I know the generalish area we will look. I have a rough idea of how much we'll get for this house (if we can keep the douchebags out of the street while people are looking at it, that is). And? I know exactly what I want. Which is a basement rancher.

Or? A split-level.

With a backyard. A fenced backyard so the Wonder Dog can run amok.

And, a pool. If you have it.

Here's the thing, though. There are dozens and dozens of houses in our price range. I mean, tons. We are probably in the best price range for looking, judging by sheer volume. There are homes in our range that are brand new and there are homes that are 100 years old.

Jason wants one brand new. I want one more like thirty years old. Well, I don't have a specific home picked out or anything, but the basement ranchers I've been obsessing over online tend to be around 16-30 years old.

The brand new houses in our price range? They are lovely. But they are also on postage-stamp sized lots and RIGHTNEXTDOOR to the next house. And? They don't have a basement.

My beloved has a lot of absolutely enormous furnishings. The desk we have? Takes up 1/2 of our living room. He had this thing in his BEDROOM in an 800 square foot condo. It's gigantic. And...I hate it. I've been trying to sell it to various people since I met him.

Also? He has a 75 gallon fishtank. We ignore every fish in it. They are not pets. They are just really wet decorations.

And? He has a ginormous entertainment center. And a file cabinet. And speakers far larger than even my ass.

Have I mentioned the 200 pieces of clothing that no longer fit him and the huge backpack and camping equipment that is currently hiding in my son's bedroom because he wouldn't think of putting it in the storage space? Oh, and the Total Gym that's he used once in the eight years since I've known him.

And this? Is after I threw away about hinty billion items when he moved to Tennessee and I was still in North Carolina.

So he has a lot of crap. And I'm having a hard time convincing him to get rid of any of it.

I also am having a hard time convincing him that we NEED MORE SPACE. So buying a house the same size as we currently have would defeat the purpose, unless he's willing to get rid of, um, everything he owns.

Which he doesn't seem to be.

Really, I'm very sweet to him. I can't think of anything naughty I can do that I don't already do. Crying doesn't work with him. Nor do threats.

Any advice? I really need either/or to work here and I'm just not good at persuasion.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Well, you aren't missing anything. I'm obsessed with a house I don't have yet.

A couple of weeks ago after my car was hit and my drivers side mirror busted by a man who lives in my neighborhood who proceeded to get out of his car, call me a fat ass and make verbal threats to me, I went home and said to Jason, "The hell with this. We're moving."

So yay! We're moving.

But not today. We started looking at houses and even went to some open houses and talked to Realtors and so on and then *I* said, "Why don't I pay off my car first?"

I know, I know. What is UP with me? What am I? Fiscally responsible or some crap?

Apparently so.

So we're moving. Probably next summer.

And, sadly, the thing I'm most excited about? Is getting the children twin sized beds. Because what they have now is a taken-apart bunk bed. And they visited my parents and innocently said that the beds my parents have are softer and I got the big stink-eye from my mom about how I really should just get my children a decent bed. Because clearly, I lived in luxury as a child. If by luxury you mean I had curtains made out of old bedsheets and didn't own a pair of pants that my brother didn't wear first until I was like, twelve.

But I digress.

So excited am I about the children's new beds, that also don't exist, I went and bought these:Now, I will spend several months obsessing over the potential of the yellow stripes making the Boy Child's room to girly and how I can convince Jason to let me paint Girl Child's walls green.

While the rant was warranted and while I have every single right to have my rants, I still have to have a job. And an excellent blogger emailed me and said that some people in her office had found her blog, complained on her, and she had to take down her blog. Which sucks and is really not fair, but I understand why she did it.

Until my big book deal/Queen of the world gig comes through? I have to have money. So I can't get fired.

Also? I spent three hours last night with the Girl Scouts.

And there is something very calming and centering about being with young people who are excited about something you are excited about.

Honestly, last week at work was one of the worst of my life. It was miserable in so many ways.

And I didn't even think about it once, while I was talking with the girls and the moms and the other volunteers.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

-If you are Lindsey Lohan or behave or aspire to behave in the manner in which Lindsay Lohan behaves, you must pay for your own college education. Otherwise, you go for free.

-If you are Michael Vick or anyone else who is abusive to animals, you must lie down and have your privates covered in peanut butter. Then a pack of rabies-infested dogs get to come in and have a visit with you.

-100% of my family and 95% of the rest of the population have to have therapy.

-The National Soda is Diet Pepsi. Instead of water in the water fountains? Diet Pepsi bubbles forth.

-People who allow their children to play in the street and don’t watch them? Get to extract my foot from their asses.

-All delicious food has zero calories. Especially chocolate.

-All Mother-in-laws must shriek to the women their son’s marry, “You are the best thing that ever happened to my son! I puffy pink heart you with glitter!” Or something.

-The TennesseeState slogan would be changed to, “Are you kidding me with this?”

-If Tennessee doesn't currently have a slogan, it gets to be that one.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Due to my aforementioned love of all things MTV, I decided last night to tune into a new (maybe? It was new to me anyway) episode of the program, "The Hills”.

Have you seen this show? It’s so, so bad and I’m so in love with it that I would marry it if I could.

The main character is a girl named Lauren who is both adorably pretty and possibly the most unlucky individual on the planet. Since I have been watching this show, she’s dated a huge tool (named Jason) and stupidly, on her part, gave up a chance to have a summer internship in Paris so she could live with him in a rental house on the beach, had the misfortune of having a horrible roommate named Heidi, had her best friend try to steal her guy or a guy she liked or something, and now someone (probably the horrible now ex-roommate) has started a rumor that she had made a sex-tape with Jason.

The drama! The scandal!

Anyway, if you haven’t gouged out your eyeballs with a sharpened spoon after that last paragraph, a lot of last night’s episode was about the ex-roommate Heidi and her asshole boyfriend/fiancé, or whatever the heck he is, named Spencer.

I’ve never been one to be against young marriage. I mean, heck, I figure any one of us has as much chance as the rest of us to make it. For me, getting married at twenty was a really, really stupid decision. But, if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have Boy Child and Girl Child. So, you know, whatever.

That being said? If Heidi and Spencer do get married? I think my head will spontaneously implode.

I know Heidi is only twenty years old and does not seem to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but how on this planet could anyone want to marry a guy who both looks like Jim Carey in the “Mask” minus the green face as well as for some reason, unknown to everyone on the planet, seems to think he’s really all that and a “Big Grab” of Doritos?

Heidi, additionally, seems to think that life is all about how many parties you get invited to and how many pairs of oversized sunglasses one person can own. She doesn’t seem to have a lot of concern over things like marital fidelity and making a life-long commitment. Or, you know, going to work and paying your own bills.

Well, that’s not fair. She does seem to have a job, which is more than I can say for her boyfriend. Granted, her job seems to involve a great deal of taking breaks to talk about her relationship and giving meaningful and dramatic glances at everyone she sees. I wish I could get hired there, because it seems pretty easy.

As much as I hope they don’t get married, they probably will. Maybe they can be like Nick and Jessica and be the “Newlyweds”. Since it worked out so great for that pair.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Okay, not really. Well, okay maybe I’m a huge tool, but the reason this time of year sucks for me?

It’s when everything falls apart.

On August 24th, 1996 I got married.

Almost eleven years ago.

On September 10th, 1997, I found out I was having twins.

Almost ten years ago.

On Thanksgiving Day in 1997, my husband told me he was leaving me.

Not a good day, despite the pecan pie.

Logically, it is stupid for me to be still thinking about this. For this to have any effect or power over me at all. For it to be anymore than a bad dream I once had.

But it still is.

It just is.

Realistically, I know that my real husband, Jason, has no plans on leaving me. He and I are talking about our next house and what we’ll do when we retire someday. Also? He’s not a huge asshat like my ex-husband and he actually, you know, loves me. When he said “I do” he meant it. He didn’t mean, “Until some crackwhore with an inner thigh tattoo comes along”. He meant, “You are stuck with me UNTIL YOU DIE.”

Friday, August 17, 2007

Probably not, judging by the Open House at the Elementary School last night.

I, as the Girl Scout representative, was in rare form. With a massive headache, two hours of sleep and a mere 800 ounces of Diet Pepsi to sustain me, I plowed into the school with the determination of an ugly guy with a Camaro trying to get with a fat chick.

Immediately, I saw my only neighbor who seems like a decent human being. So that was good. Sadly, five minutes after that I saw my neighbor who likes to stand in the street and scream at me what a fat ass I am. Thankfully, he arrived at the Open House sober, but still. I don't want to hang out with him.

I arranged all my paperwork on the table that the school thoughtfully provided me. Then I put out five bags of candy, all over the table. So people would actually want to talk to me.

Shortly after we arrived the whole place was flooded with people. Boy Child thoughtfully decided to comment to me, in a voice that could only be heard by people throughout the entire school and possibly the next county,

"Mom! Why do all the other mother's have gang tattoo's?"

I really wanted to say, "I know! Right?" but they really DID have gang tattoo's and I was afraid they would cut me. I'm not talking nice flowers or hearts or tribal bands or anything remotely pretty. I'm talking, D E A T H written across the fingers and teardrops under their eyelids and those bleeding hearts with big butcher knives stuck in them. They looked at me with hate in their eyes and I was all like, "No! Those are...lady tattoos!"

Yeah. Okay.

Most people were really nice. I talked to a lot of people and gave away all my candy. I got twelve girls to sign up as being interested and two mom's who wanted to sign up to be leaders.

I also got one mom who asked, loudly, "Don't the Girl Scouts molest children?"

No, I'm serious. She really asked that.

I said, "Um, no. If that's what you're looking for you might try another group."

You guys would have been SO proud of me! Because, seriously? I think people say stupid inflammatory crap like that just to get a rise out of others. And I don't need that. Oh no.

She looked flummoxed and then quickly said that she thought she'd "seen it on the t.v. this one time" and then she walked away.

Score one for me!

The absolute best part of the night was when a little girl came over to our table to talk with Boy Child.

The girl reminded me so much of my beloved friend Badgergirl. She was tall and willowy and pretty in a very natural way. She had the little glasses and her hair was in a ponytail. The ponytail holder? Was striped.

There was something about her. I don't know. She was adorable. She looked smart and funny. She looked like the type of kid that I would love to be friends with Boy Child.

And she shrieked, as fifth grade girls do, "Boy Child!"

And ran over.

And HIGH-FIVED HIM.

THEN, SHE STARTED TALKING ABOUT SCIENCE.

I was in awe. I was in love. I was like, "Boy Child? Could you please marry this girl so I can be around her forever? Because she seems like someone I would like."

Boy Child, as is typical, rolled his eyes and said, "I can't marry her mom. I'm only nine years old!"

Girl Child, who was listening but not commenting much up to that point said, "He's never even experienced life to the fullest mom! He can't get married."

Fair enough.

THEN, the little girl's mother came over and I swear to you, she looked JUST LIKE LIZARITA!

I was like, "You look JUST LIKE my friend Elizabeth!"

And she said, and no, I'm not kidding, "People tell me that all the time."

Liz, even though we don't live in the same town, you are totally famous! FAMOUS!

The Liz-lady was SO NICE. I was so glad I got to talk to some people who are nice and friendly and normal and decent and whatnot.

I swear to God, I looked around slowly, just in case we had somehow been transported back to 1955 and no one bothered to tell me. I wanted to make sure because I wasn’t wearing my starched dress and kitten heels and I had, you know, driven myself to the store and paid for my purchases with my own money and I didn’t want to get in trouble.

I just looked at her and took my bags. I think I gave her quite the withering glare, but I’m not sure it made any difference.

I got in the car and thought about my friend who adopted a baby from China and how a girl at the pediatrician’s office asked her if her baby was flexible because of those Chinese Acrobats she’d “seen down there in Pigeon Forge”. She thought it was hilarious. I was somewhat horrified.

I thought about the things that I should have said, which include the aforementioned, “You’re an ignorant redneck” and possibly, “Jane you ignorant slut” and “You really need to wax your upper lip” thrown in for good measure.

Then I thought, “Man, I’d like to move to a place where people aren’t quite so backward. That woman just did not turn out.”

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

First, just a hint. If you are standing in front of the area in which the paper towels are kept, holding an empty plastic package that formerly contained paper towels and you ask me, “Are we out of paper towels?” I’m just going to want to kick you in the nads.

Honey, seriously. I don’t keep a secret stash of paper towels anywhere. They are not in my car, nor they are in my bra, nor are they somewhere in the children’s rooms. I do not keep paper towels anywhere except for the exact location I have kept them for the past three years. You can CLEARLY SEE we are out of paper towels. Asking me will not magically make them appear.

Second, if you and I are discussing a product and I tell you something about said product and then five days later you decide to educate me on the exact same product that I originally told YOU about? There will be trouble. For example, the reason I was looking at you incredulously when you were explaining to me how much fiber the All-Bran crackers have is because I just told YOU on Saturday how much fiber they have. Try to keep up.

Finally, while it is very sweet of you to help me get my laundry done, I don’t put my bras on hangers. Ever. Just fold them and put them in my top drawer with the rest of my unmentionables. Work with me here.

Thanks.

Love,Your wife

Dear Fergie-Ferg,

While I like your new song on the radio about being a big girl more than I like your previous song in which you are talking about flossing or being a flossy or a floozy or whatever it is, I have to say that I am having a lot of difficulty understanding what the new song actually means.

The lyrics, in part, state:

Like the little school mate in the school yardWe'll play jacks and uno cardsI'll be your best friend and you'll be my valentineYes you can hold my hand if you want to'Cause I want to hold yours tooWe'll be playmates and lovers and share our secret worldsBut it's time for me to go homeIt's getting late, dark outsideI need to be with myself in centerClarity, peace, serenity

It sort of sounds like, “Yay! I love you! Now get away from me!”

Am I wrong? I apologize if I am.

Also? It really skeeves me out to mention Uno cards and jacks and sex all in same song. I know you didn’t say “sex” specifically, but in talking about being lovers? I got what you meant. And it wasn’t Candyland. Unless you are into that kind of thing, which maybe you are.

And…I just grossed myself out.

ANYWAY. Thanks for the new song. It’s very singable. I also appreciate that you haven’t recently peed on yourself, nor have I seen your crotch lately. AND you didn’t spell ANYTHING in the new song. Go you!

Seriously? I hope a really big, ugly murderer named Willis decides to make you his girlfriend.

Enjoy jail you disgusting perv.

Bye!That Chick

Dear co-workers,

At 8am I am just walking through the door. I know that is distressing to you, but I live 45 miles away and have two small children that I drop off at school every morning and unless I break the sound barrier on Interstate 40 there is just absolutely no way that I can get here any earlier than five or ten minutes before 8am.

That being said, if you see me walking down the hall to my office, carrying my purse and keys and planner and, most especially, an unopened Diet Pepsi? Could you please just give me a moment to get into my office and turn on my computer?

I know that you guys have absolutely no idea that you are not the most important thing in my life. Apparently none of you were raised by Britney Spears and your moms all did a good job making you feel special. But honestly? You aren’t special to me. You are just another person asking me for another thing. Did you not realize that I have two jobs? And we currently have no Training Manager, so basically I’m doing that job also? And I have work for my “home” company that they also want and need. And (this is very important, please listen) if you are a huge dick to me, your request goes into the bottom of my priority list?

My to-do list for today has already spilled over into not just Thursday, but Friday. I’ll try to help you if I can, but I don’t have time to sit and listen to you complain about how inefficient training is or how you aren’t going to do your training. I would be more efficient if you didn’t waste my time with your yang-yanging and frankly? I don’t give two craps if you do your training or not. It won’t hurt me in any way, shape, or form if you don’t. However, when you can’t get into the building? You’ll be hosed.

Have a great day.

-Chick

Dear big honking ugly tumor on my ovary,

Good God could you please just go away?!?!?! I have enough going on without your hot mess.

Thanks!That Chick

Dear son,

Last night? When you and I were looking at sentence structure and you told me that “because he likes tuna fish” was a sentence fragment and then you suggested that an appropriate way to correct that sentence would be “He smells like ass because he likes tuna fish.”?

I was never more proud in my life.

I don’t know if that’s a reflection on me or you, but either way, it felt pretty good.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

I tracked the package all day long. My hands were sweating, my knees were shaking.

All I could think about was that package.

I was rewarded by UPS tracking at 2:22pm: Package delivered.

I internally rejoiced. I could not wait to get home.

But I had to,you know, work. Then, I had to pick up the kids. THEN I had to go to the market and get some bread and lunch meat and some “healthy” snacks, because by God you can’t eat anything in the school system these days without somebody getting really bitchy about it.

So finally, car full of children, bananas, and backpacks, I arrived home to see the box on my porch.

Glee! The box! THE BOX!

I raced out of the car and dragged the box into the living room.

Then, I had to get the groceries out of the car.

Then, I had to make dinner.

While helping Boy Child with his homework, which included looking things up on the internet, because clearly, if you’ve read my writing you are aware that I have ideas on what constitutes a complete sentence and the public school has ideas on what constitutes a complete sentence and never the twain shall meet.

Then we had to actually eat dinner and while we were eating Jason came home and was in a really pissy mood and didn’t even laugh when I danced over to him to kiss him. Buttface.

THEN, finally, I got to open my package.

And guess what was inside?

THIS! My Dyson!

*cue angels singing, birds flapping their wings and whatnot*

I enthusiastically began to put it together when Girl Child said, “Mom? I forgot I had these spelling words, can you help me with this?”

GOOD GOD. How am I supposed to be a MOTHER when all this fun crap is going on around me? I ask you!

So I said, “Okay!”

And while I read the spelling words at the speed of sound, JASON STARTED PUTTING THE VACUUM TOGETHER.

OH. MY. FROG.

I could have shot him! SHOT HIM! Because it’s MY VACUUM! All day long I looked forward to that package!

Silently, I seethed. Okay, not silently. I seethed as I read words like “mill” and “blow” and “yesterday”.

And OH MY FROG what is wrong with me?! That I am having emotional disturbances over someone else putting together my VACUUM.

Finally, she won the living room spelling bee and went to bed. I wrestled the vacuum out of Jason’s hands (NICELY) and ran it all over the rug.

Then? While Jason was in the bathroom? I ran in and knocked loudly on the door and insisted that he SEE all the pet hair I got up. When he protested that he was “unavailable” I insisted that he unlock the door so I could stick the container through the door (promising I wouldn’t look…like I want to see him pooping or something. For the love of God) so he could SEE FOR HIMSELF the power of the Dyson.

It was 9:30pm and I was vacuuming the rug. When he was done pooping? And came back? I waved to him while I was vacuuming. He just rolled his eyes for me.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

I just don't understand how this continues to happen. This morning as I was putting together his clothing for the week and, you know, crawling under the bed looking for socks, I questioned him regarding this.

Me: "Son. How is it possible that you own eight hundred socks and I can only find two?"BC: "Dunno."Me: "Where are all your socks son?"BC, thoughtfully: "Canada?"Me: "Son. We don't live in Canada."BC: "We don't?"Me: "NO. We live in the United States. I only know like three people who even live in Canada."BC, brightening: "Maybe they took them!"Me: "Who?"BC: "Your friends in Canada."Me: "Um, no."BC: "Hey mom? Canada is where they have that bacon! And your friend? He says eh? a lot!"Me: "Never mind."

If you guys see any small socks with stains on the bottom? They belong to Boy Child. Please send them back over.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Okay, I know that's probably like the most MAJOR sign that I'm really f-ed up. That I actually CARE that my therapist likes me. But I do.

I like him too. He didn't even get mad at me when I lamented how sad it was that I had to pay him to be my friend.

One of the reasons he likes me, I think, is that I make his job really easy. See, I went in there KNOWING I was f-ed up. He totally didn't even have to tell me. I was all like, "This and this and especially this are wrong with me. I need you to tell me how to fix it." And then we talked and he's all like, "You are so right. This and this and ESPECIALLY this are so wrong about you." Then I felt smart.

Like the other day? I got really annoyed at work. And not for the usual reasons like that everyone is being a tool or dressing like a porn star. But because they were talking about lunch. Specifically, what they were going to eat for lunch. At like, 10am.

They kept talking and talking and talking about it. "What are you going to have?" "Where are we going to go?" "Do you want to go?" "Should we ask Cletus if he wants to go?" Good God!

Then I was like, oh. This is what normal people do. They eat lunch. They don't have major food issues like you do. You are the one who is messed up here, not them.

Then I felt proud again. I still wished they would shut up and do some actual work though.

So the other day, I was telling him about a situation with someone who shall remain nameless (but might be my only sibling without a vagina) and how much this person pissed me off. About how we were watching a television program on which four or five plus-sized women who were scantily clad were dancing around (it was some talent-show type program that I don't watch normally) and he made some really ugly and hurtful comments about those women.

In front of me. The fat sister.

More importantly? In front of his 13 year old daughter. Who is plus-sized as well. Who's sweet little face got redder and redder the more he talked. Who already has food issues. Who had to sit there and listen to her only freaking male role model on this planet say he thought she was ugly and someone who deserved to be made fun of.

And what did I do? Nothing. I got up and walked away.

Because I was angry. Not only for me, but for Niece Child.

And I was telling my therapist, we'll call him Big Jim, about it. I was all like, "Big Jim, it made me so mad! And I did nothing! I have this huge problem with doing absolutely nothing all the time, even when I know I should."

And he said, thoughtfully, "Chick, would it have done you any good to say something?"

Friday, August 10, 2007

Okay, seriously? My sister's baby could not look any more like me unless she literally fell out of my own vagina.

Granted, you guys don't know what I looked like when I was a baby.

It's pretty much this.

Boy Child and Girl Child had to get in on the action, of course.

Girl Child did quite well, as you can see. Basically she's one of those people who was born a Mother. She's been bossing me and Boy Child around since she could speak. No lie, I used to say, "Boy Child, what do you want for dinner?" and she'd say, "He'll have chicken!" And I'd say, "Girl Child, please. Let your brother speak." And I'd say, again, "Son, what will you have for dinner?" and he'd look at her and she'd nod, ever so slightly, and he'd say, "I'll have chicken."

He'll be a great husband someday.

Anyway, Boy Child was significantly less certain of his own parenting abilities, as evidenced by this photograph:Note the look of "What the damn hell?" on his sweet face.

He did a little better after that, though.

Yesterday was the first day of school and we had to take the requisite First Day of School Photo. Okay, I took like, ten. Or so. But this is the best one.

Yes, we are of the same race, although I am so white I glow. And yes, they are nine, although Girl Child appears to be ready for Pre-Med.

And finally, because I'm like that yo, here are some photos of my children, including the furry one I call Ginger or sometimes Asshole Dog. (I mean that affectionately, really)

Yes! She CAN get a what-what!

I only have about two hundred more, but I'll be nice and not post them all.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Recently, I signed up to review a new book called Maximum Ride: Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports via MotherTalk. I love to read, as I've mentioned I'm sure, and I decided that since I'm out of college and all I'm going to actually start reading for pleasure again. I've never read any of the Harry Potter books and this series is supposed to be THE series to replace Harry Potter. So I'm a bit backward I guess, but whatever.

The book is written by James Patterson and I have to say, I liked it. I didn't love it, but I liked it.

The reasons I didn't love it are probably pretty persnickety, to be fair. I haven't read the first two books in the series and I'm fairly certain I should have. I didn't really understand what was going on at first and I imagine I would have, if I had read the first two books. Granted, there was a brief synopsis of what was going on early on in the book. Of course, that was part of what annoyed me about the book. I really dislike reading a book and being reminded by a character in a book that I'm reading a book. And in chapter two, that's exactly what happened. Also? Some of the chapters were extremely short. One or two pages. To me, that's not a chapter. Yeah, I know, this book is for kids. Kids probably want a short chapter. But don't insult their intelligence.

But okay, all that being said? I liked it. I really think my son and daughter would like it and I think I'll probably pass it on to my thirteen year old niece.

A lot of the lingo is, um, familiar to me. (Yes, I talk like I'm fourteen, I know. Gah!) I think others, read: those who are annoyed by my blog, might find it a bit trite. I have to give James Patterson mad props for attempting to write in the voice of a teen age girl though. That takes guts. I like his "adult" stuff and I think it's difficult for any writer to branch out in another genre, but he does it quite well.

The book features a strong female lead, (Max) which I do not require but do appreciate in my reading.

The story is a quick read and it keeps the reader interested and motivated to read more. I read it in a weekend and could have read it much quicker (stupid laundry and cooking!). Also, one of the main characters, Fang, writes in a blog frequently and the blog actually exists. And it's actually alright to read! I really, really, really thought that was cool idea. I'm going to sound like I'm two hundred when I say this, but I think it's really important that a writer stay current with what is interesting to kids now. Okay, now Harry Potter doesn't do that, but apparently no one cares. Everyone else needs to though.

I would recommend it for kids who are the age of Boy Child and Girl Child (9) and probably even to kids who are pre-teens to around 15. Maybe older teens would like it too. I can't figure out teenagers.

I don't know if it will ever replace Harry Potter though. That wizard, apparently, has got it going on.